


Blood Will Tell

by thelightofmorning



Series: Blood of the Aurelii [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Multi, Religious Conflict, Sex Work, Slavery, Torture, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23600788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Self-exiled from the Companions and unable to determine the honourable path, Korli Grey-Mane has travelled to Orsinium to study the smithing techniques of her Orcish cousins and lay low until her mother's ire dies down. But the fingers of the nascent Stormcloak rebellion and the legacy of the Aurelii reach far and she finds herself at the heart of another storm as she reconnects with lost kindred. Meanwhile, in Jorrvaskr, the Companions must deal with the fallout of losing the woman they suspect to be Dragonborn... and the growing schism within the Circle between werewolf and those who would force a cure on them all.It's the 186th year of the Fourth Era and in the end, blood will tell.
Relationships: TBD - Relationship
Series: Blood of the Aurelii [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695604
Comments: 53
Kudos: 47





	1. The Forgemaster's Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, slavery, ableism, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, rape/non-con, adultery, sex work, torture, child abandonment and child death. Sequel to ‘To Be A Nord’. I have head-canons that Cracked Tusk Keep (Mashog Yar Agol) and Bilgegulch Mine (Urgak Mal) are actually in eastern Orsinium, which is located in the mountains between western Falkreath and eastern Hammerfell during the Fourth Era.

“What do you want, Nord?” demanded the gate-guard at Cracked Tusk Keep. “Here to collect a bounty by collecting a few Orcish heads? Well, you won’t live to see the Jarl in that case.”

“My name is Korli Grey-Mane,” she called up to him. “But I was born Aurelia Callaina, of the line of Aurelia Northstar, daughter of Agol gro-Mashog of Mashog Dul in northern Skyrim. I’d like to meet Chief Tarlak if I may.”

“He’s in Orsum Bur,” the guard answered, his tone a little less hostile. “Grey-Mane’s a smithing line, aye?”

“Yes. Eorlund Grey-Mane is the greatest smith – and wonder-smith – in Skyrim and I’m his apprentice. I’m on my wander-year and came to learn more smithing from my Orcish cousins.” Korli rested her hands on her hips as the guard mulled over what she said.

“If Tarlak were here, he’d be able to verify your status as Blood-Kin, but since he isn’t I have to put you to the same test we’d put to anyone who wanted to enter Orsinium,” the guard finally responded. “Have you ever heard of the Forgemaster’s Fingers?”

“Agol gro-Mashog’s legendary gauntlets?” Korli asked in response. “Not much. Grandfather Arius really never liked acknowledging the Orcish blood, I’m afraid.”

“Arius was mad as a First Seed hare and died for his stupidity,” the guard answered bluntly.

“If you’re expecting me to disagree, it won’t happen. I lived through it and suffered because of it.”

“Ah, I think I can place you now. Rustem’s get with that mad Kreathling bitch Dengeir calls a daughter, right?”

“Yes,” Korli admitted with a sigh. “I admit part of the reason I’m on my wander-year is to let things die down with the Stormsword. I reminded some of her goons I knew a lot about her and she didn’t take that well.”

The guard snorted. “I see you inherited Aurelia’s tact.”

He lowered his orichalcum crossbow. “I don’t doubt you, cousin, but you’re a Nord from a clan that’s been hostile to us. I don’t fancy explaining to the High Chief at Orsum Bur why I let an unknown wander into our territory. So I need to send you to Knifepoint Ridge – or Agol Tukh. It’s an iron mine that is in our territory, but someone hired bandits to kill the miners there and take it over.”

“I’m guessing that’s where the Forgemaster’s Fingers are?” Korli asked. “I know the place. I killed the Guardian Bear spirit there about a half-moon ago.”

“Those bear pelts were you? We gave them to the Hags at Glenmoril because they had Reach-sign on them.” The guard chuckled. “We’ve had worse neighbours than Catriona.”

“She’s my mother’s mother,” Korli admitted. “How soon did you want the Fingers returned? I’ve had a long walk from Whiterun and I couldn’t overnight in Falkreath-town because Grandfather Dengeir’s at least as insane as Grandfather Arius and probably twice as nasty.”

“You can camp at the stronghold’s walls and I think we’ve got some bread and cheese,” the guard answered. “I’m Ghurug and I’m Tarlak’s second son.”

“Thank you, cousin. I have some orichalcum ore I can gift you in return.”

“Keep it for Tarlak. The Forgemaster’s Fingers will be repayment enough, if you can get them.”

It was a quiet – if lonely – night at the foot of the stronghold and as grey light filtered through the trees, Korli checked her equipment, donned the light chainmail shirt and leather breeks she’d completed under Eorlund’s critical eye just after she’d been made a full Companion, and went up to Knifepoint Ridge. Bandits manned the log palisade, most of them too well armoured to be the average thug.

Her crossbow took care of the two on the gate but drew the attention of the other three. She managed to down another one with a third bolt but then it fell to close combat as the other two charged her. They were more skilled than the average bandit but less so than one trained to the exacting standards of the Companions’ arms master and neither knew how to dodge a spell to the face.

Korli blocked the first one’s iron sword with her steel-reinforced bracer, then opened her palm to cast Flames directly in his face. With a yowl of pain he fell back but his friend was already swinging her steel mace downwards; using lessons from Farkas, Korli leaned to the side and grabbed her outstretched arm, planting the mace in the dirt. A knee to the stomach folded her over nicely and a steel-reinforced elbow guard to the back of the skull downed her. The woman’s own mace made sure of her and the burned bandit.

She retrieved her crossbow and cocked it, entering Agol Tukh. Her great-great-great-grandfather had made quite the impression in this part of Orsinium, it seemed. A sleepy bandit entered the final sleep after she shot him in the stomach as he sat up; she collected the bolt and made sure of him with his own dagger. Then she plunged into the mine.

There were five more bandits in the mine and to Korli’s horror, one of them wore the jagged tattoos and Ebony Mail of Boethiah’s Champion. “I don’t give a shit if you think you’re too good to mine corundum and iron,” sneered the woman. “We have a quota to meet.”

“Since when did Boethiah give a shit what the Stormsword wanted?” asked one of the guards.

The Champion picked him up by the throat and snapped his neck like a twig. “Our purposes are served at the moment by an alliance with her. Does anyone else have questions?”

After that demonstration, they didn’t. They quickly dispersed with picks to pry ore from the rocky walls. Korli, watching from the shadows, took a moment to choose her target – the Champion, obviously – and aimed for the woman’s unarmoured head.

The bolt landed with a sickening crunch in her left eye and she collapsed in a clatter, alerting the others to the presence of a hostile intruder in the mine.

“I’ll give you four a choice,” Korli said from the shadows as she reloaded the crossbow. “You can take a hike out of Orsinium lands or you can die with that daft bitch. Your six friends outside are dead. I can kill at least one of you with the crossbow before you reach me and my Destruction spells can do the rest. What do you say?”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” one of the bandits said in disgust. “I signed up to fight for Talos, not work as a miner.”

_So Sigdrifa’s sponsoring ‘bandits’? The Orcs are gonna_ love _that…_ “Knowing the Stormsword, she won’t take kindly to your failure. I strongly suggest you find an alternate occupation.”

“Good work for sellswords in Hammerfell,” said another bandit. “We’ll go. Tell the Orcs it wasn’t nothing personal, we was just following orders.”

“They won’t care so long as you’re out of Orsinium by sunset,” Korli agreed. “Take nothing but what’s on your back. I’ll deal with the dead. Now go.”

They fled and she sighed. The politics never ended.

It took most of the morning to burn the dead, including the Champion of Boethiah, and Korli’s hands crawled even through gauntlets as she stripped the Ebony Mail. It was one thing to deal with the Madgoddess, Malacath or Hircine; quite another to be in close proximity to the Prince of Plots.

**_“You are not one of Mine, but you ultimately served My purpose in a way that pleased me,”_** observed a harsh voice of indeterminate gender. **_“You have earned My respect, a feat few manage and live to tell about. I shall write your name upon the Tablet of Absolute Darkness.”_**

“Uh, thanks, but I belong to Kyne as _Her_ Champion,” Korli said, dropping the Ebony Mail.

**_“That’s as may be but your soul is a hard one to claim, even for the Aedra. You may keep my Ebony Mail, a token of my appreciation to you. Its gifts will resonate with your talents. Now go. I have strings to pull that require my full attention. You may pursue your own course wherever it leads you. Remember always this: As you will it, so it shall be.”_**

Korli had absolutely no intention of keeping the damned Mail. But she wrapped it up in canvas and stuffed it into her pack before going to search for the Forgemaster’s Fingers and any other loot this place might hold.

It was sunset when she returned to Mashog Yar Agol, the orichalcum-steel vambraces her ancestor had worn in her hands as proof she’d done as Ghurug ordered. The new gate-guard, a lanky Orcish girl with pale green eyes, gasped and quickly opened the gates for Korli.

Ghurug was talking to an older Orc whose silver-streaked hair was belied by the powerful physique under his olive-green skin and an ancient Orc womer with pure silver hair. “-So Aurelia’s blood has come again to Orsinium,” growled the older mer. “I thought Arius and his brats want nothing to do with us.”

“Korli, to use the name she uses, is a pariah among her mother’s kin and the Cyrods of the Empire,” observed the womer. “She is not Arius nor Dengeir.”

“Granma, Father, she’s come with the Forgemaster’s Fingers!” called out the gate-guard.

“Is that so, Lakhra? Go back to the gate.” The older Orc, who wore a heavy orichalcum circlet, turned to face Korli. “I don't believe it. You found the Forgemaster's Fingers. You've impressed me, cousin. No one else has returned from this task before. By the Code of Malacath, I name you Blood-Kin to the Orcs. Let it be known among the strongholds that you are family, now.”

Korli found herself smiling. It had been a good ten years since she’d seen him, but now, she recognised Tarlak. “Thank you, cousin. Agol Tukh is cleared of those ‘bandits’ and the Champion of Boethiah who took up residence there.”

“You’ve finally put some meat on those bones,” Tarlak observed. “But… Champion of Boethiah?”

Korli related everything she knew and overheard as Okhra, Tarlak’s mother and the stronghold’s wisewoman, took the Forgemaster’s Fingers. At the end of the tale, Tarlak frowned grimly.

“This isn’t good news, cousin. Falkreath’s Jarls have always refused to acknowledge Orsinium’s borders and this… this could be considered an act of war.” He tugged on a braid, looking exhausted for a moment. “You will come to Orsum Bur with me and tell the Council of Chiefs. Agol Tukh’s on the border with the Reach and if the Stormsword had continued to control it, she could have raided Orsinium and Lost Valley and possibly even Elinhir with little trouble.”

“We should speak to Safiya of Elinhir,” suggested Okhra. “She has no love of Sigdrifa after that botched assassination plot in the last years of the Shattered Gold War.”

“Aye.” Tarlak tugged on his braid again. “Anyone else?”

“My mother’s predictable if you know the history of Talos,” Korli told them frankly, yet again disgusted with her mother. “Study the histories and scriptures and you might yet anticipate her.”

Tarlak’s expression grew a little brighter. “You already give me the counsel of a wisewoman, cousin. Welcome to Orsinium. You will find yourself among kin here and none will gainsay me.”

“Thank you,” Korli said softly. “I’d heard you were influential but…”

The chief smiled. “Of course I am. I’m the High Chief of Orsinium until Malacath decides otherwise.”


	2. There's a Storm Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, child abandonment, war crimes and religious conflict.

With Korli’s leaving, Jorrvaskr had diminished and the Companions lesser in number and perhaps honour.

Skjor might have had the numbers in the Circle with Aela and Vignar supporting him but the sorry fact was that he wasn’t fit to be Harbinger and he knew it. In better times, he might have sufficed, but unless Farkas chose a side or Vilkas changed his tunes, the Circle was split under a Harbinger who’d become selfish and monofocused. When Aela had pressed her mate on the issue, Farkas simply said there wasn’t anyone in the Circle worthy to challenge Kodlak because everyone was right and everyone was wrong. Cryptic for him. If Skjor thought he’d agree to be a compromise candidate, he’d give the job to Farkas.

Jobs still came in and Companions still went out to complete them. Athis had taken the pushing back of his Proving with a sardonic smile, pointing out that while challenging Sigdrifa to a holmgang would certainly solve many problems, he wouldn’t leave Windhelm alive. _“Korli was right though,”_ he said tersely. _“Kodlak can’t justify kinslaughter as an act of honour, even if the offending party’s a Hagraven.”_

“Why couldn’t have Korli just challenged Kodlak?” he asked of the night air. “She had the right to!”

“Because while she has the right instincts, she knows she isn’t ready,” Aela said from behind him. “She’s nineteen, nearly twenty. Even with what she’s been through, she doesn’t have the experience to correctly judge the honourable path in every situation.”

Skjor nodded in acknowledgement of her statement as she and Farkas joined him. “Is that why you haven’t taken a side, Farkas?”

“Yeah. Korli’s gonna be the next Harbinger. Kodlak himself has seen it. But she needs more life experience.” The big man sighed and wrapped his arms around Aela. “We need to work with Kodlak. He ain’t all wrong.”

“But he’s acted dishonourably!” Skjor pointed out.

“And so did you by givin’ me the beast blood on the sly,” Farkas countered.

Skjor winced. “Good point.”

“We may need to rethink Athis’ Proving,” Aela said after an awkward silence. “I know he has the heart of a Nord but Windhelm isn’t the safest place for a Companion, and for one of Dunmer ancestry, it wouldn’t have been safe even without Korli pissing off Sigdrifa.”

“True,” Skjor conceded. “What then?”

“Krev the Skinner. We haven’t avenged ourselves on the Silver Hand for their attack on Korli and Farkas at Dustman’s Cairn – and if they sense our weakness, give Korli’s public repudiation…” Aela let the words trail off.

“You have a point. Farkas?” Skjor asked carefully.

“If we hit ‘em hard, might distract us. The kinda vengeance you want is also part of Dunmer culture.” The big man gave him a wise look. “We gotta remember that Athis got his own kind of honour, an’ it don’t necessarily contradict Nord honour.”

“Oh?” Skjor really hadn’t given Dunmeri honour much thought. Whoever came to Jorrvaskr as a whelp was supposed to comport themselves as a Nord, no matter their race of origin.

“Azura teaches ya gotta see your enemies comin’, Boethiah teaches ya to prove yourself by the slayin’ of your enemies, an’ Mephala teaches ya to do away with them if they should harm ya,” Farkas answered simply.

Skjor smiled. “I suppose I hadn’t seen it that way. Alright, we’ll ask Athis if he’s game.”

“Of course I’m game,” the Dunmer answered sardonically when approached. “I have no intention of taking the beast-blood, just so you know, but the Silver Hand have no honour in their deeds.”

“Who knows about the moon-born?” Aela asked.

“Me, Avulstein, the junior Grey-Manes and Bjarni,” Athis said serenely. “Bjarni doesn’t quite have the context but Thorald had him swear by Talos to keep it a secret, even from his parents. That boy keeps his oaths. Korli taught him well.”

“I hope you’re right,” Skjor said slowly. “I’m guessing you all eavesdropped?”

“Shamelessly.”

“Then prepare yourself, whelp. You’ll be going to Gallows Rock with myself and Aela to deal with the Silver Hand.”

…

“The problem with the Skyforge is that it makes smithing easy,” Laluska, Tarlak’s Forge-Wife, instructed Korli as she had the young woman pump the bellows. “It keeps the steel spirits bound together and the metal hot from all I’ve heard. So you will begin from the start until I’m satisfied you understand the process properly.”

Korli inclined her head. “Very well, ma’am.”

“Such manners!” Laluska laughed. “Get pumping, apprentice. This sword won’t forge itself.”

“She won’t be pumping bellows for long,” Okhra, who’d been Forge-Wife before becoming wisewoman on Tarlak’s accession to the chiefdom, observed professionally. “Skyforge might make it easy but Eorlund is truly a master smith. He’s taught her well.”

“She’s more competent than you’d expect for someone who only learned smithing fifteen or so moons ago,” Tarlak agreed. “Smithing is in Nord and Orcish blood, but… she learns quickly.”

“She learns as Aurelia’s first husband did,” Okhra said calmly. “We must temper the learning with honour so that it sinks into her very bones like orichalcum. With a little common sense too. Agol should have done more to temper his daughter and her husband when he had the chance. Things would be very different.”

Tarlak gave his mother a surprised glance. It wasn’t _quite_ blasphemy to criticise Agol as the founding chief of Mashog Yar Agol and the one who helped establish the Fourth Orsinium but he was generally considered above reproach.

“You don’t realise she has the blood?” Okhra asked, misunderstanding his glance. “Catriona and I have been talking once we knew she would come this way. The Hagraven has many ways of viewing from a distance and knows her granddaughter is afflicted with trances on seeing certain words on the dragon-walls.”

“You’re saying she’s like Martin?” Tarlak managed to choke out.

“More than likely.” Okhra adjusted her charm-laden shawl. “She doesn’t see it – or Kyne won’t let her see it yet. The wisewomen have a lot of lore passed down from Marius and Sidgara, when we were friends with the Aurelii and the Kreathlings. I don’t know if this one’s the Last Dragonborn, but I fear it with the rumblings from Skyrim.”

“Tomorrow’s fate to tomorrow,” Tarlak finally said. “Laluska can forge apprentices as she can metal. There’s good steel in Korli despite the Empire’s best efforts to remove it.”

Hunting, forging, mining – there wasn’t a chore that Korli didn’t turn her hand to during the week they stayed at Mashog Yar Agol. Only those chores saved for children and the sick were forbidden to her, as all hands needed to be useful in a stronghold and it would dishonour those who could work but weren’t allowed to. Tarlak knew that the traditionalist Orcs in the east of Skyrim sneered at those of the west as softlings who drifted from the Code of Malacath. Let them dine on roast skeever in rags with crowbars for swords; Malacath hadn’t struck the Orcs of Orsinium down for blasphemy or weakness yet.

He wasn’t surprised that Safiya elected to come to the stronghold instead of Orsum Bur or that she’d brought Rustem with her. Something dark and hungry looked out of Rustem’s bright blue eyes, only sated by the death of his enemies, and Tarlak wasn’t above pointing the Child of Satakal in the direction of unworthy foes when a problem needed solving but Orsinium couldn’t have a hand in it. He’d become Blood-Kin after killing a Redguard who slew an Orcish maiden for refusing to obey his disgusting commands. After Arius’ insults, even if they were family, Tarlak had vowed to make every Aurelii who sought out Agol’s descendants earn their clan-rights.

“We would have brought Cirroc but he’s gone to the Sword-Saints’ sanctuary for training after manifesting a soul sword right in front of half the family at a feast,” Safiya said with an inclination of her head. “Does she intend to go to Elinhir after this? We have many smiths and mages in the city.”

“Put it in her head and she might agree,” Tarlak assured the Lady. “She’s at that age where the youngling tries to figure out what is and isn’t honourable.”

“I thought she’d become a Companion of Jorrvaskr?” Rustem asked.

“She and the Harbinger had a disagreement about honour. He wanted her to kill the Matriarch of Glenmoril and end the bargain the Circle has with Hircine,” Okhra answered with a grimace. “I thought Kodlak had more honour than that, but he’s just another bloody Nord.”

“The Companions are werewolves?” Safiya asked, eyebrows rising.

“Some of them. If you think that’s shocking, Catriona’s a Hagraven with a sense of honour. Madanach fell because she couldn’t kill her own daughter Sigdrifa.”

“Poor woman. We’ve had the occasional dealing with Glenmoril but…” Rustem sighed and pushed his long fine braids back. “Does she know we’re coming?”

“I told her that you’d come to the Council of Chiefs.” Tarlak nodded in the direction of Urgak Mal. “She’s smelting orichalcum and iron up at the mine. Laluska’s making sure she knows the basics away from the Skyforge.”

“So you reclaimed Agol Tukh then?” Safiya asked. She was always mannerly and used the Orcish name for places in Orsinium.

Tarlak turned to usher them into the guest house. Traditionalist Orcs had a problem with treating female nobles as their equals, but Gortwog gro-Nagorm had allowed the strongest womer to become chief of a stronghold if all the mer of appropriate age were dead or too weak or too young to hold the job. Laluska had been chief of Agol Tukh until her brother came of age; he’d died when the ‘bandits’ and their Champion of Boethiah took the mine two years ago. “Korli did, on her own. The Ebony Mail’s no match for a crossbow if you’re too stupid to wear a helmet. Seven dead, four fled.”

“Praise Satakal,” Rustem said fervently. “The Ebony Mail’s no joke. That bitch nearly killed me when I tried.”

“You never told me that!” Tarlak exclaimed.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you with my failure.” Rustem grimaced in remembered pain. “So what’s happened with the damned artefact?”

“Boethiah approved of Korli keeping it, but I suspect that she’ll give it to the Glenmoril Coven for safekeeping,” Okhra answered. “She’s the Champion of Kyne by the old Nord rites. I feel the hand of the Hawk-Goddess on that girl.”

“No wonder she’s on Sigdrifa’s shit list,” Rustem said grimly. “I can’t do anything about it. After the shadow war we had with the Brotherhood, Astrid and I agreed to stay in our respective territories. Keep her in Orsinium and then send her to us. If Sigdrifa sends goons after her, I’ll send their heads back to the bitch with their balls in their mouths.”

Okhra’s expression was serene. “The Stormsword could send armies after her daughter and they would avail her not. For there’s a storm coming and it might just break on Windhelm if provoked.”


	3. Family Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, child abuse, child neglect, child abandonment, war crimes and genocide.

“Well, I couldn’t have smelted the iron and steel better myself, but you need more practice on the orichalcum,” Laluska said, wiping her forehead with a rag.

“It’s a hard metal to get a hold of in the lowlands and harder still to find anyone who will use it,” Korli answered, wiping her hands on her breeks. “Nords prefer steel and iron though oddly enough, what with all the accidents the Thalmor Justicars keep on having, we _do_ see a lot of moonstone and the occasional piece of glass in Whiterun.”

Laluska gave a low evil chuckle. “That explains the finish you were able to get on that elven dagger, I suppose. But if you want to eventually work ebony, you’ll need to understand orichalcum. The metals are close cousins, the wisewoman says. Go. Tarlak wants to see you.”

Korli raised a hand in farewell, smiling at her cousin’s second wife, and then turned for the Keep proper. Mashog Yar Agol had been a fort built in the days of the Reman Empire before being abandoned during the Second Era. As to how Agol had found it, Tarlak’s theory was that Malacath had shown him the way, knowing full well that the fourth Orsinium would rise in these rugged mountains.

What caught her eye at first glance was the five or six horses of the fine-boned, long-legged variety bred in eastern Hammerfell with tack that was adorned with silver, gold and silk tassels. Three Redguards, two of them women in the comfortable long tunics and loose pants worn for travel, were talking amiably with Korul, Ghurug’s wife. While Orsinium held to the Code of Malacath, they were also more flexible about following it; the strongest son became the chief of the stronghold, as always, but the contest wasn’t fatal and many younger Orcs took a spouse in the understanding they could move to Orsum Bur and settle there if the chief didn’t let them stay. When Korli asked Tarlak about it, the High Chief had shrugged and said, “Malacath hasn’t struck us down yet.”

Korul was already a noted weaver; no doubt she was asking after the dyes and thread used in the Redguards’ fine festive garb. She gave Korli a shy smile and a wave. “Tarlak wants to see you,” she told her. “They’ve been waiting on your return from Agol Tukh.”

“So you’re… Forgive me, is it Korli or Callaina?” asked one of the Redguard women, short and fine-boned but with a hardness to her brown eyes.

“Korli. Korli Grey-Mane.” Redguards waiting for her here… By the gods, it couldn’t be, but it had to be.

“Grey-Mane?” the other asked in a low lilting voice. They were definitely cousins, though this one was a bit plumper and taller than the other, with bright amber eyes.

“The clan who adopted me.” Korli offered a stiff bow she remembered Alik’r warriors using in County Bruma. “I’m guessing my father’s inside.”

“And the Lady Safiya. I’m Dalila,” said the hard-eyed one. “Setareh’s my cousin and we’re both cousins to the Lady of Elinhir.”

Setareh bowed with a smile. “We won’t bite. You may not be Redguard, Korli, but there’s Yokudan in you. Lady Safiya hopes you’ll come to Elinhir to study Redguard smithing techniques when you’re done in Orsinium.”

“Thanks,” Korli said with a flush.

“Go on then,” Dalila said with a smile of her own.

Tarlak was in the dining hall with Ghurug and two Redguards. Safiya bint Beroc al-Elinhir was short and delicate like her cousins but there was a flinty resolution in her gaze that reminded Korli of her mother. As Rustem rose to his feet, she was surprised to realise that he wasn’t as tall as she remembered; he was, in fact, only an inch taller than her and his hair was iron-grey. “If you want to punch me a few times, I understand,” he said in the rich baritone she dimly recalled.

“Before you decide to do so, understand we didn’t leave you in Bruma because of a desire to,” Safiya added in a sweet lilting soprano. “For the first five years, we fought to throw the Dominion out and had no reason to believe you’d survived Cloud Ruler Temple.”

“Did you pretend I never existed?” Korli asked, her tone harsher than she planned.

“No. Every day, until I knew you were alive, I prayed to Satakal and Tu’whacca and even Kynareth that you’d come to the Far Shores or Sovngarde or wherever you went and no longer suffered,” Rustem answered soberly. “When I knew you were alive, Safiya and Beroc tried to see if there was a way to get you out of the Workhouse through proxies, but the Elder Council blocked every attempted adoption. I think they intended to have you conscripted and then ‘killed in battle’. It was only literally the Madgoddess that kept you alive in Bruma. You can ask her yourself in Orsum Bur.”

“I didn’t know about the adoptions but when I was told I’d be sent to the Anvil Third as a frontline grunt instead of the Synod, I knew what Mede was trying to do,” Korli said grimly. “So I slipped out of Bruma and took the Serpent’s Trail to Skyrim. If I was going to die, I’d die as a Companion of Jorrvaskr, with honour and purpose and maybe learn how to be a true Nord on the way.”

“And yet you left,” Safiya noted.

“It’s complicated and it isn’t forever. The current Harbinger, however we might disagree on matters of honour, still took me in and gave me a chance. I’ll return to Jorrvaskr when he’s been gathered to the gods.” Korli clasped her hands together to conceal their trembling. “I might as well put my exile to good use and learn a few new smithing techniques to add to the wonder-smithing of the Grey-Manes.”

“Well, it is my hope you come to Elinhir. We have many fine smiths and mages in the city,” Safiya said quietly. “There is an inheritance waiting for you and a brother you must meet too.”

“We’d’ve brought Cirroc, but he’s training with the Sword-Saints,” Rustem said. “Having a big sister who’s a Companion of Jorrvaskr would please him very much. He’s already an extraordinary swordsman.”

“I’ll come,” Korli promised, blinking back tears. “Thank you.”

Tarlak threw a feast that night as on the morrow they’d travel to Orsum Bur, the capital of Orsinium. Korli nursed a single cup of ale, as was her wont, and watched how her father and Safiya interacted. This time around, he seemed to be a better partner – or maybe it was that Safiya had no illusions about Rustem and didn’t care he wasn’t monogamous by nature.

“He’s a killer,” Tarlak observed after Safiya had gone to bed and Rustem was dicing with two of the High Chief’s guard. “He’s also not particularly a good man. But he keeps his word and he treats his family well. That’s all you can ask for in times like these.”

“I have no illusions about my father,” Korli agreed. “But he was never a bad parent to me.”

The next morning they set out for Orsum Bur, climbing through the mountains in a party twenty strong. Korli marched with the guards though she’d been offered a horse. The trail was narrow enough and steep enough that the horses were barely faster than being on foot, and she was used to walking long distances by now.

Orsum Bur was located in a valley tucked between two mountains. It was a city of wood and stone, very much built in the stronghold style, but from here Korli could see hundreds of Orcs lived in this place. The air rang with the sound of hammered metal and gruff work-chants, scraping stone and all the noises of a city.

“We’ll be a lot harder to pry out this time around,” Tarlak growled. “Welcome to Orsum Bur, the Home of the Orcs.”


	4. Together... As One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, genocide, war crimes, child abuse, child abandonment, imprisonment, torture and religious conflict.

“You know it’s bad when a Hagraven and that woman-chief from Elinhir are attending,” remarked one chief to another as they filed into the meeting hall of the Temple of Malacath.

“You didn’t hear? Agol Tukh had been taken over by a Champion of Boethiah and some of those so-called ‘Stormcloaks’,” answered the other chief.

“I thought Stormcloaks worshipped Talos?” observed the first chief.

“That’s what they probably tell the Nords. Mauhulakh of Narzulbur sent word to Largashbur that ‘bandits’ kept on trying to take Gloombound Mine but were conveniently training at that shrine of Boethiah in the hills,” the second told him.

“Narzulbur’s cursed. Mauhulakh’s wives keep on dying,” the first said dismissively.

“Dushnamub, his only son, drinks in Kynesgrove sometimes to get away from those damned aunts of his. Ayugayah, that daughter of mine who took to mining, works in Steamscorch Mine every winter and heard about the whole mess from him because the hetman’s been bitching about the raids too.” The second chief pushed back his long grey hair. “The stories I’ve heard of Ulfric’s wife…”

The first one snorted. “She’s the chief of that stronghold, whatever she lets Ulfric think.”

The second one laughed. “You’ll get no argument from me! But she deals in dark powers, that one. The stories Ayugayah tells me of Eastmarch… I’ve a mind to tell her to go work in Markarth instead.”

“Madanach doesn’t rule in Markarth anymore, which is a damned shame,” the first one said with a sigh. “They were good people who stood by us where few would.”

Tarlak waited for everyone to gather before raising his hand for silence. His throne wasn’t much fancier than a common chief’s, only its rare snowy sabre cat pelt differentiating it from the others. Safiya, Rustem, the Hagraven Catriona and Madanach’s heir Kaie of Lost Valley sat in comfortable chairs to the side, facing the assembled leaders of Orsinium. Korli, Okhra and Laluska sat on padded stools as befitted honoured female members of the High Chief’s family; he could see the other chiefs putting two and two together.

“I know I’ve called you from your strongholds during the food season,” he said without preamble. “I know there are outsiders at this Council of Chiefs. All of them are Blood-Kin or kin to Blood-Kin, if that makes it better for the rest of you.”

“We know you called us because of Agol Tukh,” retorted Ghorbash the Iron-Hand, representative of Dushnikh Yal and a noted warrior veteran of the Great War. “It doesn’t look good that a Champion of the sly Boethiah took it from your grasp, Tarlak.”

“It was taken from the grasp of my brother Garak,” Laluska reminded Ghorbash. “I didn’t see _you_ or any of your damned kin offering a hand when I asked Dushnikh Yal for help.”

“I was in Cyrodiil, finishing my time in the Legion,” Ghorbash rumbled. “But two years, Tarlak!”

“I know,” Tarlak admitted with a sigh. “One of our Blood-Kin tried to retake it, but the Champion of Boethiah damn near killed him. Thankfully, our newest cousin Korli Grey-Mane – trained by the Companions of Jorrvaskr – was able to finish the job. The news she brought to me was… concerning.”

“A woman did what you or your sons couldn’t?” laughed Hagar of Mar Durrik in the west. “She’s got more balls than you, Tarlak!”

“I’ve got more balls than most in this hall,” Korli responded sweetly. “There’s two of them and they’re attached to my chest.”

She glanced at Tarlak, who nodded, and rose to her feet. “If any of you wish to doubt my honour or my credibility, I’m happy to discuss it in the battle-circle under the gazes of Malacath and my foremother the Madgoddess. I found the Forgemaster’s Fingers, the sacred artefact of my thrice-great-grandfather Agol gro-Mashog. I’ve come to learn the smithing techniques of my Orcish ancestors – and to understand the meaning of honour.”

Korli cracked her knuckles. “So shall we start the discussion with a brawl or should we wait until the drinking?”

Ghorbash grinned. “If I was looking for a wife, woman…”

Hagar grunted. “Tarlak and his sons should be done it himself. But he’s too busy playing politics.”

“Politics which has kept Orsinium intact,” Tarlak growled. “You’re welcome to challenge me for the High Chief’s seat if you think I’m doing a poor job.”

Ayugayah’s father cleared his throat. “So it’s true Stormcloaks took Agol Tukh?”

“Yes. Probably following tactics derived from the Second Book of Tiber Septim, as per his taking of County Leyawiin.” Korli clasped her hands together. “The Stormcloaks don’t recognise Orsinium, so to them, it wouldn’t be an act of war. But from that place alone the Stormcloaks could have harried the trade into Orsinium, the Reach and Elinhir, none of whom have a love for Dengeir of Falkreath and his daughter.”

“It isn’t Ulfric giving the commands as the war-chief of the Stormcloaks?” asked another chief.

Korli shook her head. “Ulfric is Chief of Windhelm… and Sigdrifa, my mother, is his war-chief. I leave it to the priests to decide who is and isn’t a god. But there is no honour in what she does, she has threatened me more than once to keep my silence on what I know, and she of all people has no right to determine who is and isn’t a true Nord. Companions don’t play politics… but we aren’t silent in the face of dishonour either.”

Ghorbash sighed. “There’s not a lot we can do beyond keeping a watch on our borders.”

“Talos was able to conquer Tamriel because Tamriel was divided,” Safiya said simply. “Hammerfell has won itself free of the Empire. Orsinium exists in the Empire’s despite. The Reach will rise again. I can even sympathise with the Nords who desire to rule themselves. But the Stormcloaks, as they stand, don’t want to be free of the Empire – they want to build their own on the bones of our slain.”

The Iron-Hand nodded tightly. “Agreements of mutual aid?”

“We can stand alone!” Hagar yelled.

“Oh really? I recognise the cloth of your coat – it came from the looms of my own palace,” Safiya countered in her cold sweet voice. “That torc you wear is of Reach silver and make. Since most Orsimer have the sense not to raid into the Druadachs, I can only assume it was bought from a trader who passed through several places to come to Orsum Bur.”

“You speak truth,” Ayugayah’s father noted. “But this kind of thing must be put to Malacath.”

Tarlak nodded in agreement. “Name the wisewoman who will summon Him.”

“Tolal of Maz Kinush,” suggested Girrechek, naming his aunt.

“Done.”

Tolal, a plump womer with a lazy smile and crossed eyes, stepped forward with the Daedra heart and troll fat. Tarlak rose from his throne, removed his robes, and allowed himself to be anointed by the wisewoman in sacred patterns. As High Chief, he stood for Orsinium, so he must speak to the Prince of the Bloody Oath.

An Orc, twice as tall as the tallest mer in the hall, appeared. Orichalcum-green skin was daubed with the sacred patterns of the Ashpits, his eyes burned with a fierce ruddy glow, and His hammer Volendrung rested across shoulders broad enough to carry the world.

“Tarlak,” growled Malacath. “You’re getting old.”

“It happens to most of us, my Prince, though I believe myself to have a few good years in me yet – unless You decide otherwise,” Tarlak answered with a curt nod. Malacath despised grovelers.

The Daedric Prince smirked. “It isn’t Me who decides but the ways of the world.”

His eyes swept across the crowd and even the bravest chief felt as weak as a child in the gaze of Malacath. “I see Hircine, Sithis and Kynareth have sent representatives. You must want something very, very badly from me to seek out the Orsimer.”

Catriona stood and bowed low. “We have mutual enemies and your chiefs felt the question of mutual aid should be put to you.”

“Is that so?” Malacath chuckled. “There’s no point in picking a fight with you, Hagraven. You fight dirty.”

“The wisest hunter uses their brains, not their brawn, in the hunt,” Catriona retorted mildly.

Rustem cleared his throat. “Give me my naginata and I’ll dance with you, Malacath. I’ve never shied away from a fight.”

Malacath’s smile was a wry thing. “You’d break your spear on my bones and then I’d have to explain to the Night Mother why I let you get killed, boy. Daedric Princes don’t usually confront each other openly. Professional courtesy and all of that.”

“Someone didn’t give that memo to the Madgoddess,” Korli observed.

The Prince of the Spurned roared with laughter. “My Hunts-Wife does as She pleases! Molag Bal and Mehrunes Dagon slink around like snakes in Her presence.”

Korli took a deep breath. “I’m the one who brought this news to the Council. Let me stand for us all. Malacath, Prince of the Spurned and Lord of the Bloody Oath, I challenge you to the holmgang.”

“You won’t shoot me with a crossbow from the shadows?” Malacath asked, eyebrows rising.

“I tailor my tactics to the honour of my foes,” Korli answered dryly.

“One blow,” Malacath conceded. “You may have a strong soul, girl, but you’re still mortal. Withstand one blow of Volendrung with a shield without flinching or stepping off the cloak, and you’ll have my support for this alliance.”

“One-handed or two-handed grip?” Korli asked.

“Two-handed,” Malacath told her.

While Orcs didn’t practice the holmgang, they knew how it was done: Okhra collected a cloak while Ghorbash provided a good Orcish shield. Once the cloak was laid down, Korli stepped onto it, took Ghorbash’s shield in both her hands, and set herself in a traditional shieldman’s stance.

“You’ve got courage,” Malacath noted as He raised Volendrung. “Your intelligence is possibly in question, but you’ve got courage.”

The warhammer fell down like the inevitability of death and there was a mighty ringing of metal that drove all thought from those in the Temple. The force of the blow blew back the hair of those seated nearest to the pair and once the ringing had died away, there was utter silence.

The shield had split in two halves and Korli had been driven to her knees from the power of the blow. But though her face was white with pain from the likely injuries, she did not cry out, and neither of her feet had left the cloak.

With a supreme effort that twisted her face, Korli rose to her feet with a forgivable grunt and stared with wide stark eyes at the Daedric Prince. “You struck at half-force,” she grated.

“I wanted to test you, not kill you,” Malacath said lazily, resting the hammer across His shoulders. “Orc. Redguard. Nord. Reacher. Cyrod. Akaviri. Many bloodlines coming together in you.”

“I stood for us all,” Korli said through gritted teeth. “Together… _as one_.”

“As one,” Malacath agreed. “Well, Tarlak, you have your answer.”

He turned away. “Come seek Me out when you’ve grown up a little, girl. It should be interesting to see what you’ll become.”

Out of respect for her courage, the wisewomen didn’t carry Korli off to the healer’s hut until Malacath had returned to the Ashpits. All the while she stood silent with that stark wide stare.

Tarlak had his answer and talk turned to an agreement of mutual aid. Together… As one.


	5. Sins of the Ancestors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, religious conflict, war crimes and child abandonment/abuse/neglect. Expanding a little on my head-canon for the Orcs of Orsinium as I can’t believe that Orcish culture would only have two or three choices for women.

The wisewomen of Malacath were as skilled healers as the priests of Kynareth and by the end of the week, Korli had the full use of her hands and wrists again. _“Normally we wouldn’t use so much Restoration on an injury that would heal naturally but I imagine you don’t want to have someone wiping your arse for you,”_ Tolal said dryly after a session.

_“No, not particularly,”_ Korli agreed and they’d chuckled.

She emerged from the ‘healing hut’ – which in reality was a well-built cottage that smelt of herbs and vinegar – and reflected on how _precise_ Malacath’s blow had been. Just enough to fracture her wrists and split the shield in two. Even now she wasn’t sure why she’d challenged him to the holmgang – unless it proved insanity really did run in the Aurelii bloodline.

Orsum Bur, aside from the stronghold architecture, really wasn’t different to any city she’d lived in. Merchants sold their wares, customers wandered the streets in search of a bargain, someone was hammering metal a little down the street and there was even a busker, though this one was chanting something generic about the chief who was listening to him. The Code of Malacath wasn’t as alien as one might have thought and she had more in common with her Orcish cousins than she realised.

“Korli,” greeted Yarok, one of Tarlak’s personal guard. “Glad to see you’re up and about.”

“Thanks.” Korli rubbed her wrists gingerly. “Tolal and Okhra know their business. They could give Danica Pure-Spring lessons in healing.”

“I’ve been assigned to you while you’re in Orsum Bur,” Yarok explained in his light, soft voice. “You’ve earned the respect of Malacath and there’s always the weak who hope it’ll rub off on them, so I’ll be keeping you from getting mobbed.”

“Thanks,” Korli said in relief. “Please don’t ask me why I did it. I guess I inherited more than I thought from the Madgoddess after all.”

Yarok chuckled. “You know, She’s only mad by the lowlanders’ standards. She is courageous, loyal and unyielding with a righteous wrath that made Daedric Princes tremble when She was a mortal. Malacath knows that and that’s why She’s His Hunts-Wife.”

“All of that is true,” Korli said softly. “But speaking as one of her descendants, knowing how Julius Martin and Arius turned out, she and Martin wouldn’t have made great chiefs.”

The Orc nodded as he led Korli down the street towards Tarlak’s longhouse. As he’d warned, some of the crowd began to murmur and try to press closer. Someone asked if she was going to be Malacath’s Forge-Wife and got slapped upside the head by a wisewoman who pointed out even the Divine Chief couldn’t take two women from the same tribe to wife. Orcish women weren’t the submissive floormats that everyone outside of Orsinium thought them to be.

“I’ll be glad to return to Mashog Yar Agol,” Korli admitted once they were inside. “Laluska won’t give a shit I took a blow from Malacath if I smelt the orichalcum wrong.”

“Which is as it should be,” Yarok said firmly. “Nords can coast along on one act of courage for years and assume they don’t have to prove themselves constantly.”

“You’ve never been to Jorrvaskr,” Korli said wryly. “You can’t rest on your laurels there unless you’ve retired. Even the Harbinger, who advises us on matters of honour, must proves themselves wise in counsel and always honourable.”

They wiped the mud from their boots and entered Tarlak’s personal meeting hall, which was surprisingly luxurious with the exotic furs on the walls, floors and benches. Tarlak, Rustem and Kaie were seated at a table, talking over ale, while Okhra and Catriona exchanged magical knowledge by the fire.

“I see the prisoner’s been released,” Rustem said, setting aside his flagon of ale. “Congratulations, Korli. You’ve withstood a blow from a Daedric Prince and helped cement an alliance. How many Companions can say they’ve done that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t read all their histories.” Korli rubbed the back of her neck. “When are we returning to Mashog Yar Agol?”

“In a couple days,” Okhra answered, looking over her shoulder.

“Praise Kyne,” Korli said fervently. “I want to get back to the forge.”

“Can you believe one idiot believed she was going to be Malacath’s Forge-Wife?” Yarok asked in disbelief. “Everyone knows chiefs are forbidden from marrying two women from the same tribe!”

“Some of the city orcs don’t know better,” Tarlak said with a sigh. “Though, I’ve received two offers for Korli’s hand from other chiefs.”

“I’m flattered, but I must respectfully decline,” Korli said quietly. “I’ll be returning to Jorrvaskr once my wander-years are done. That place is my stronghold.”

“I’ll let them know. Plenty of womer marry the sword or the forge without the inconvenience of a husband,” Tarlak answered, now amused. “You’ve done much to enhance the prestige of our tribe, Korli. Hagar and his lot are saying ‘if Agol’s blood is that strong after it’s been thinned, what do you think Tarlak will do to us if we challenge him’?”

Rustem grinned. “I’ve seen what you do to your enemies, Tarlak. I should take notes.”

“Pfft, you don’t need the help.”

“Catriona taught you well,” Kaie said after a mouthful of ale.

“If it wasn’t for Granma, I probably wouldn’t have turned out half so well,” Korli agreed. “The Workhouse wasn’t fun when you were the last of the Aurelii.”

Rustem’s expression darkened. “Where the fuck was Irkand during all of this?”

“Killing necromancers and vampires,” Korli said with a sigh. “He didn’t know I’d survived for about a year and after that, he figured I was better off in the Workhouse because he could hardly take a nine-year-old with him on his missions.”

“Typical,” Rustem said contemptuously. “He could have taken you out and gotten you to Hammerfell. Don’t make excuses for him, Korli. He’s a dishonourable son of a bitch.”

“No one came out of Cloud Ruler with clean hands,” Korli answered tersely. “Irkand… well, he was the one who helped win the Battle of the Red Ring. Him and Rikke and a couple others. Naarifin _lost_ because of him, Father. Acknowledge that, if nothing else.”

“He also chose to remain loyal to the Empire, Korli.” Rustem’s smile was a little sad. “You’re too good and honourable person to assume the worst of most people. I don’t know where you got it from.”

“On the contrary,” Korli said softly. “I’m aware of how bad people can be. I choose to act the best I can because I won’t be defined by the sins of my ancestors.”

…

“You did _what_?”

“Took Athis out on his Proving and killed an entire fortress of Silver Hand in retaliation for their attack a few moons ago,” Aela said calmly. “He’s a full Companion now and not before time.”

She watched Kodlak struggle to contain his outrage and anger, wondering if anyone else could smell the sickness in his bones. To see such a mighty warrior laid low was heart-breaking, to say the least.

“Pity they’re like cockroaches and will just scurry out from the shadows in the future,” Vignar said with a sigh. “If we could just gather all of them in one place and squash them like the vermin they are…”

“Whatever honour they had has been lost,” Skjor agreed. “But the fact is we only have Avulstein left as a whelp. We need to start looking for more gifted warriors.”

Vignar sighed again. “You might lose Avulstein. He’s talking about going to Windhelm and joining Ulfric’s warband to make sure that _someone_ with honour is in the high command. This news out of Falkreath…”

_“Orsinium,”_ Aela corrected. “The Orcs have a right to their own homeland, Vignar, if you agree with the Stormcloak rebellion.”

“Very well,” Vignar agreed. “How much of it do you think is exaggerated?”

“Little,” Skjor observed professionally. “Korli’s taken lessons from Aela in hunting and while she prefers light chainmail, I know Farkas taught her how to brace against a mighty blow.”

“I’m not referring to her competence, I’m referring to this news that Sigdrifa’s been bloody well supporting Daedric cults!” Vignar snapped testily. “Even for her, that’d be a new low.”

“If Korli believes it so…” Skjor trailed off grimly.

“And it fits with what Athis told us about living under her rule,” Aela agreed. “He nearly joined that cult after his family froze to death in the winter of 180.”

“So what can we do?”

“Nothing,” Kodlak said with a sigh. “It’s politics.”

“Everything is politics to you these days,” Aela said disgustedly. “What kind of snowberries are we that we don’t challenge the Stormsword for her dishonour and mistreatment of non-Nords?”

There was no answer, but she wasn’t surprised. Kodlak was focused on his soul, Vignar was a Stormcloak and Skjor was worried more about Jorrvaskr than Skyrim as a whole.

She looked towards the west. _Korli, come home. We need you, Shield-Sister._


	6. Yokudan In You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of genocide, religious conflict and child abandonment. Timeskip ahoy!

“Well, you’ve done it. You can forge orichalcum like an Orc and improve even the finest non-ebony armours to my satisfaction,” Laluska announced with a rare sense of pride. “If you’re looking to work with glass or enchanted stuff, you’ll have better luck in Elinhir.”

“I need to improve my enchanting skills,” Korli agreed. “Eorlund, for all his knowledge of wonder-smithing, only really knew resistance enchantments. Companions tend to view weapon-enhancing and magical damage enchantments as cheating.”

“Well, Elinhir isn’t called the City of Mages for nothing,” Laluska noted. “Will you be staying with your family?”

“Not likely,” Korli admitted. “I love my father and I know Safiya means well, but I’m _trying_ to avoid entanglements. I’m pretty sure she wants me to become the court enchanter or something.”

“Eastern Redguards are like that. Keeping it all in the tribe and that.” Laluska patted her shoulder. “Take the set of armour you forged. You can move more easily in it now.”

Korli smiled wryly. “All of those calisthenics Farkas had the whelps do finally clicked under Ghurug’s training.”

“The Companions do train you in many arts of war, don’t they?”

“They do,” Korli said with a sigh. “I miss them. But I’m not ready to go home.”

“You’ve much to learn before you can even consider becoming their war-chief,” Laluska observed. “Now come. Korul’s put on quite the feast and she’ll be offended if you don’t stuff yourself like a Breton dining at the Gourmet’s table.”

Korli laughed.

The feast was as grand as Korul planned, the trestles groaning with five kinds of meat, several vegetable dishes and kegs of ale and mead. Rustem was there to accompany her back to Elinhir, which would make for an interesting trip as she’d never spent so much time around her father in her life. Korli ate well but didn’t stuff herself, made about ten toasts for every cup of mead she drank, and farewelled her Orcish kin. She’d miss them.

The next morning, wearing her new Orcish armour with her chainmail in her saddlebags, Korli clambered astride a plodding Whiterun-bred grey mare and followed her father outside the gates. Elinhir was about two days’ journey from Mashog Yar Agol and they’d have to backtrack through Falkreath-town itself to reach the border gate.

“We’re fortunate that it’s the spring Moot and Dengeir’s in Solitude,” Rustem observed as they rode into the valley where Falkreath-town lay. “Nenya’s not interested in pursuing old grudges on his behalf when he’s not around.”

“For someone who hates the elves, I’m surprised his Steward’s an Altmer,” Korli mused.

“Nenya’s father was a Kreathling and she’s served since, oh, Dengeir’s great-grandfather’s day as Steward. She’s utterly loyal to the Hold.”

For reasons of tact and diplomacy, Rustem had left his naginata in Elinhir and carried only an Orcish greatsword, with which he was more than competent. His fine braids had been tied back and so long as no one got a good glance at his famous blue eyes, they should be fine if they just passed through. As for herself, Korli just hoped they wouldn’t pay attention to a black-haired Redguard woman in Orcish armour too much.

Falkreath-town was a collection of cottages surrounded by extensive tombs and graveyards. “This was once a great city,” Rustem observed softly as they rode through. But after the Oblivion Crisis, it went to shit and none of the ruling Jarls have done squat to improve its fortunes.”

They passed through without incident and came to the border gate by lunchtime. “Where are the guards?” Korli asked in disbelief.

“Absent on the Falkreath side,” he answered. “We’ll have lunch with Safiya’s men about a mile in. Things are still very tense between Elinhir and Falkreath since I executed Balgeir.”

“Do you really hate Mother that much?” Korli asked once they’d passed under the border gate.

“Balgeir came to Elinhir looking to hire the Children of Satakal for a couple murders, physically assaulted a sex worker at Mowhra’s Pearl and earned the ire of the madam, and then had the balls to tell me that you were better off dead,” Rustem replied flatly. “I’m not a good man, my daughter. But anyone who speaks ill of my family dies.”

He looked straight ahead. “I don’t know if you know this, but your mother’s friend Astrid sent a Bosmer to kill me, except she decided to try and poison the entire household instead. If it wasn’t for my nose and the mer’s nervousness…”

“You two really were a fucking pair, weren’t you?” Korli said disgustedly.

Rustem looked at her opaquely. “Yes, we were.”

The border guards of Elinhir were located in a neat whitewashed building not that far away, but they weren’t the only people there. Among the sage green and cream uniforms of Safiya’s soldiers were warriors in the Alik’r crimson, violet and dusk-blue, most of whom had a dragon curled around a star embossed on their leather breastplates. “Beroc,” Rustem said tersely. “Wonder why he’s here.”

“Hail, Child of Satakal,” greeted one of the Alik’r with a grin. “The pubs and brothels of Elinhir have missed you.”

“Not as much as those of Dragonstar missed you, T’roc,” Rustem retorted easily, dismounting from his brown gelding. Korli gladly jumped from her grey mare. “What’s the old hound doing down this way?”

“We heard you were wandering around without adult supervision and came to investigate,” T’roc drawled amusedly.

“Well, good thing you avoided Falkreath. It’s as depressing as always.” Rustem gestured to Korli. “My daughter, Korli Grey-Mane. Champion of Kyne, Companion of Jorrvaskr, Blood-Kin of Orsinium and probably one of the greatest smiths in Skyrim.”

“Grey-Mane?” T’roc asked.

“I was adopted by Ulfric’s maternal relatives, mostly because I’d been apprenticed to Eorlund and they wanted to remind my mother of a Nord’s honour,” Korli answered. “If you know _anything_ about my blood relatives, I got lucky with the adoption.”

“Yeah, they manage to be more screwed up than a palace full of Crowns,” T’roc agreed sardonically.

“Don’t let Kematu hear you say that,” Rustem said dryly.

“I’ve said it to his face,” T’roc answered calmly.

“How you haven’t been killed yet is beyond me.”

“The same reason _you_ haven’t been; we’re too good as warriors to die to some pissant with a grudge.” T’roc bowed to Korli. “Welcome to Hammerfell. I think Beroc will be pleased to meet you, if only to get a more recent understanding of Skyrim’s state at the moment.”

“I haven’t been home in a year,” Korli told him as she returned the bow. “I have intentions of studying smithcraft and enchanting in Elinhir.”

“Good place to learn, especially the last.” T’roc led them into the building’s mess hall, where a silver-haired Redguard in fine silk robes sat at the head of the high table. “We intercepted him, Lord Beroc.”

“Good,” Beroc said in a deep, resonant baritone. “I’m guessing, judging by the description, this is your storied daughter Korli Grey-Mane.”

Korli inclined her head. “I am, Lord Beroc, though I’m not sure ‘storied’ is the appropriate description.”

Beroc’s keen brown eyes studied her. “You’re… what… twenty?”

“Yes, Lord Beroc.”

“Twenty years old and nearly two and half years since you fled the Bruma Workhouse. In that time, you have become a full Companion of Jorrvaskr, replanted the sacred Gildergreen of Whiterun, slain a Champion of Boethiah and withstood a direct blow from a Daedric Prince.” Beroc’s tone was dry as the Alik’r Desert. “If that is not ‘storied’, my dear, Jorrvaskr must have higher standards for fame than I realised.”

“Half of it was luck and the other half very good training, Lord Beroc,” Korli told him.

The old Redguard smiled. “How do you think the heroes of the world are made?”

He rose to his feet. “Rustem, there is food and drink in the kitchen. I wish to speak to your daughter alone.”

“Now just a damned minute,” her father began, only to be silenced by a raised eyebrow from Beroc.

“She was without your presence for most of her life,” he said quietly. “Your daughter is quite used to standing on her own. But there are things that must be discussed between people of honour, Rustem. You are many things, including my daughter’s consort, but you aren’t a man of honour.”

“That lack of honour has saved you, Safiya and probably Hammerfell itself in the past,” Rustem said defensively.

“I know and I’m not ungrateful.” Beroc sighed. “Where I am, your daughter will likely stand one day. Let me be the grandfather she never had, because by Redguard law I am one of sorts. Now go.”

Rustem nodded stiffly, eyes blazing, and stalked into the kitchen.

“Come,” Beroc said to Korli. “It’s too fine a day to be cooped up in this building.”

With a spryness befitting a much younger man, Beroc led her to the roof of the border-guard building, looking east over the pine-shrouded mountains of Falkreath Hold.

“Your father isn’t a bad man,” he said after a moment’s silence. “He is what he was made by Arius, the Blades and the trauma of the Great War. Had Setareh brought her sons back to Hammerfell, both of them would stand in the front ranks of the Forebears as a shining example of what our faction represents: the best of Hammerfell blended with the best of the kingdoms surrounding us. But she did not, they were not, and they are not.”

“She died bearing Irkand, if I remember correctly,” Korli said softly. “I never knew what she was like.”

“Intelligent, cosmopolitan, a true jewel of Dragonstar and the Forebear nobility. Had Arius been half of what he claimed and achieved half of what he promised, she would have been a great Empress,” Beroc answered. “Sura-Mai, my nephew, paid court to her but she chose the Blades as her grandfather had been one. She was the second to last Redguard to join their ranks who hadn’t been born there.”

“Arius was mad,” Korli said bluntly.

“Yes,” Beroc agreed. “Most of the Aurelii since Julius Martin have been, in their own particular way, but he truly took the cake for both insanity and the consequences it had for three provinces.”

He looked towards the horizon. “Sura-Mai has sent me to Skyrim as Ambassador as the political situation there is becoming unstable, thanks in no small part to your mother. An independent Skyrim would be a welcome outcome… if it wouldn’t effectively be run by a pair of bureaucratic incompetents.”

“The Empire’s bleeding Skyrim of its gold and children to replenish Cyrodiil’s lost fortunes,” Korli answered. “I agree with you about my mother and probably Ulfric, but Companions don’t get involved in politics. By the current Harbinger’s standards, I’ve meddled enough as it is.”

“And you left Jorrvaskr because you disagree with the current Harbinger,” Beroc pointed out. “Jorrvaskr is undergoing a schism not seen since the days of Terrfyg. It is the heart and soul of Skyrim’s honour. If Jorrvaskr falls, then Skyrim will be lost to the whims of whatever tyrant sits the High King’s throne.”

“You don’t think I don’t know that?” Korli retorted, her voice growing hot. “But there was nothing I could do at the time, and I was due to take my wander-years anyway. Kodlak raised me from runaway war orphan to Companion; we may disagree on points of honour, but I know the debt I owe him. I betook myself into exile so he could remain Harbinger, because I had no desire to cut him down and there are none who are ready to take his place.”

“Ah.” Beroc drew out the syllable. “I… made an assumption and I apologise.”

“You have very good sources of intelligence if you know of all this,” Korli continued harshly.

“I have an agent in Whiterun,” Beroc admitted. “I don’t know if Safiya told you this, but we’ve always had an eye on you and tried to intervene where we could. Nords aren’t the only ones who understand family and honour.”

“She did tell me,” Korli said, sighing away her anger. “What do you want from me, Beroc? I’m sure Safiya’s told you everything I told her and Tarlak about my mother, if that’s what you’re after.”

“She has and it’s certainly made your mother more predictable. I know she’s very much like Rustem, a product of her environment and trauma, but my daughter’s consort has _some_ basic decency and morals. Your mother has absolutely none that I can discern.”

“Sure she has, if you understand Shieldmaidens were taught to be weapons and tools for an uncaring god and expected to treat all others the same, then piled on a whole lot of humiliation, fear for her life – there aren’t words to describe what living under Arius at Cloud Ruler was like, Beroc – and then the trauma of losing her Shield-Sisters and god to an Empire that had betrayed her,” Korli told him frankly. “I have spoken against my mother because her actions are dishonourable, not because I hate her. It’s like hating a shark for being a shark.”

Beroc inclined his head once with a grave expression. “I almost pity her. Not so much I’d stay my hand if we must act to deal with her, but I can almost pity her nonetheless. She tried to have my daughter, your father and most of our household poisoned twenty-something years ago, you know that, right?”

“Father told me. She will answer to Tsun one day, Beroc, when she tries to cross the Whalebone Bridge and the Shield-Thane of Shor’s going to have some hard questions for her.” Korli clasped her hands together. “I have two other brothers caught in this coil. If Bjarni can live long enough to lead the Stormcloaks, I think they’ll become who they’re meant to be.”

“And I have a grandson, your third brother, whose future I must consider too,” Beroc answered. “Cirroc will be a Sword-Saint, a true one. He won’t rule for swordery will be his first and only love. We both know the Dominion profits by the instability in Skyrim and that the Thalmor will be the only victor in a free Skyrim ruled by Ulfric, for he is as Elenwen made him.”

He nodded towards the east. “You are a symbol of what we can be if we’re united. The best of many races blended together. You have learned Nord honour and Orcish honour, daughter of my daughter’s consort. Pursue your wonder-smithing and sorcery. But learn what it is to be a Redguard, for while you are not of our people, you most certainly have Yokudan in you.”

“And what is it to be Redguard, by Forebear standards?” Korli asked.

“That honour is nothing unless you have bled and struggled for it, and it is a battle you will fight every day of your life. Honour isn’t something you’re born with, it is something you earn… and when you earn it, do not hoard it like gold, but share it with all. For an honourable person is an example to all, even if they do not act.”


	7. Valuing Honour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, genocide, war crimes, religious conflict, imprisonment, sex work, alcohol use and adultery.

Elinhir was a city of towers that dominated wooden homes built from pale pastel ash, birch and pine. Most of them were ruined, but a few still stood, shimmering with magicka.

“Academy of Mages,” Rustem observed. “You’ll get in, no worries.”

“I have absolutely no concerns about that,” Korli answered. “I still practice a certain amount of magic, enough to get me into the College of Winterhold.”

“And the Companions are alright with that?”

“They weren’t _thrilled_ , in particular Vilkas, but Skjor and Aela believe you should use whatever weapons you have at hand in times of need.”

He took her to the trade quarter and to a particular tavern that was identifiable by a rusted flagon nailed to its sign. “The Rusty Cup,” he said. “The Children of Satakal own the place. It’s the most secure place in this city excepting Safiya’s palace and I know you well enough to know you won’t be staying there.”

“A smith and mage apprentice staying at a pub won’t draw attention?” Korli asked.

“No. The Cup’s known for the rooms it rents above the tavern part. Amir’s prices are affordable and many tenants stay here for years.” Rustem dismounted and Korli followed suit as a lanky groom came out to take the horses. “You won’t be asked to help in… our work. If things happen here, I’ll let you know so you can go elsewhere for the night.”

“I won’t get involved,” Korli promised. “But I’m honestly not sure if me staying in a place owned by a guild of assassins is appropriate or honourable.”

“That’s up to you. But the Companions kill for money too. The only difference between them and the Children is that they’re a bit more upfront about it.” Rustem led her into the tavern, which was a place of creamy plaster, waxed pine furniture and bright soft furnishings. Far more neater and cleaner than its name implied. A short, round man was polishing the bar while a few people, all Redguards, sat around a table playing some sort of stone-and-board game. “The Cup’s cleaner and safer than most of the other inns you could afford and my name will protect you.”

“Rustem, I was just getting used to having ale left over after a night’s trade,” drawled the barkeep. “I better send word to Mowhra’s Pearl to warn the girls you’ve come back.”

“I won’t be enjoying myself for the next few months,” Rustem told him with a grimace. “Beroc’s gone to Skyrim, my charming ex-wife is making trouble as always, and my daughter’s come to Elinhir to learn more about magic and enchanting.”

The barkeep snorted. “And here I thought this winter would be boring.”

“You need to find some new amusements, Amir, if you’re so easily bored.” Rustem gestured to Korli as the other Redguards looked in their direction. “Korli Grey-Mane, my daughter. Companion of Jorrvaskr and I’m sure you lot already know the rest. She’s _not_ to be involved in our business.”

“Does that extend to smithing?” asked one of the Redguards at the table. “Hurrem’s retired now.”

“Yes,” Korli told him frankly. “I won’t ask about what I don’t see, but honour wouldn’t permit me to forge weapons I knew would be used in, ah, covert work.”

“A pity, but we’ll respect it,” he said with a sigh. “But the Children of Satakal are more alike to the Companions than you might think. Unlike the Dark Brotherhood, we kill no innocents, and many of our executions are more in line with the Morag Tong – necessary to public order.”

“I won’t get into an argument with you.” Korli pushed her hair from her eyes. “I’m staying here because my father says it’s better than I’ll get somewhere else at the same price. No more, no less.”

Amir, the innkeep, quickly brightened and soon they were haggling over the cost of six moons’ stay. At six hundred septims, upfront, she’d get a bed, use of the bathhouse and laundry, two meals a day and unlimited house ale or wine as Redguards weren’t partial to mead. Korli paid out of her own pocket before Rustem could, earning a slightly offended huff from her father.

Her room was small and neat, with an arms and armour rack, and a window overlooking the Little Market. Korli sat down on the bed after removing her armour and pondered her next move. The Academy of Mages, she thought; hopefully they wouldn’t be as hidebound as the Synod back in Cyrodiil.

She went to sleep and her night was untroubled by dreams.

…

“We’re going to hunt a bear the size of a mammoth that’s been troubling Elinhir,” Skjor told Kodlak over breakfast. “Lady Safiya herself requested our presence. Apparently it sent Rustem and her guard running for the hills.”

The Harbinger’s smile was thin. “Unsurprising, given her reliance on an assassin and the Children of Satakal. Go then and bring its head to Jorrvaskr. We could use such glorious prey in these troubled times.

Skjor and Athis left in the dawn, riding openly to Falkreath-town, and then coming to the border gate of Hammerfell. Two guards in Elinhir’s green-and-cream stopped them at the customs building. With customary efficiency, they did confirm the presence of the giant bear, though one of them opined it might be a legendary werebear due to its cunning and size.

“Companions of Jorrvaskr, eh?” one of them asked.

“Yes. Don’t let Athis surprise you. Even an elf can have the heart of a Nord,” Skjor answered.

“I bet that attitude galls the Stormcloaks.” He made a notation on his paperwork. “One of your kith’s in Elinhir: Korli Grey-Mane.”

Skjor’s smile broadened. “So much the better. She’s been gone from Jorrvaskr for a while and the stories we heard are… extraordinary.”

“Oh, we can confirm the one about her standing in… what was it called…?” the guard asked, glancing at his compatriot.

“Holmgang. She challenged Malacath to a holmgang in Orsum Bur and didn’t flinch or step from the cloak,” the other answered. “Strange custom, that. But it won Lady Safiya the alliance with Orsinium.”

“At least they’re half-civilised Orcs,” observed the first guard. “Better than those brutes in the mountains.”

He handed a piece of paper to Skjor. “You’re free to pass, Companion. I recommend the Dancing Trout in Elinhir. It’s clean, cheap and the doors have locks on them.”

“Thank you,” Skjor said.

It was another day’s ride to Elinhir and soon enough, they found the inn the guard recommended in the Nord quarter. It was as promised and soon enough, Skjor and Athis were walking the streets of the city under the glowering ruins of the Nedic towers that homed the Academy of Mages.

“We’re going to invite Korli on the hunt,” he told Athis. “She needs to know how things stand in Jorrvaskr.”

The Dunmer shrugged. “I have no quarrel with it. But if you’re trying to get her to come home and challenge Kodlak, she won’t do it.”

Skjor sighed. “I know. I honour her decision but it’s a right pain in the arse.”

“There are no masters in Jorrvaskr, Skjor. Even if Kodlak has forgotten it and Vilkas obeys like a dog.”

Korli was staying in the trade quarter and working at the smithy of a Redguard woman whose hands bore the intricate black tattoos of a Child of Satakal. A strange group, that lot; they seemed to be the bastard offspring of the Dark Brotherhood and an honourable order of warriors who killed both for pay and to avenge Redguards who couldn’t fight for themselves. “You’ll learn everything I know within two moons, at the most,” the Child was telling her. “Eorlund and this Laluska have given you a good foundation.”

“Thank you.” Korli quenched the scimitar she’d been forging. “You’re not pissed I won’t work on Children’s weapons?”

“Not particularly. I’m retired and this is a favour to a friend.”

“Korli,” Skjor greeted as he entered the smithy. “It’s been a while.”

“Skjor!” She smiled quickly though didn’t abandon her work. “I’m guessing you heard about that damned bear.”

“We have. I trust you’ll be joining us in the hunt?” Skjor nodded politely to the blacksmith. Best not provoke the local guild of assassins.

“I will. That damned thing sent my father running, and I’ve never known Rustem Aurelius to run from anything but responsibility or marriage vows in my life.” Korli finished quenching the weapon as the blacksmith laughed. “This is Hurrem. She used to forge for the… well. The order my father joined after coming to Hammerfell.”

“My hunger was filled and it was time to retire,” Hurrem said simply. “I took Korli on as a favour to Rustem, who I owed my life to. We acknowledge the honour of the Companions and ask nothing of her in our work.”

“Then I respect you and yours,” Skjor said sincerely. “When can we take Korli out for a meal? We haven’t seen her in over a year.”

After her work was done and she’d taken a bath, Korli joined them at the Dancing Trout and Skjor took a moment to study her as he would a stranger. Before she’d left Jorrvaskr on her wander-years, she’d been somewhat unsure despite her place in the Companions, her honour searching for rich soil to root itself in. Her clothing had been neat and clean, but unornamented and undyed, the legacy of her life in the Workhouse. But now she’d grown more into herself and while she didn’t look any different on the outside, the Axe-Bearer could see that she’d embraced more of herself, and it shone from her features and in the vivid garb she wore.

“Safiya’s work,” she said as she sat down. “My… stepmother, I suppose, though she and Father never married. She sat me down with her women and decided to tell me what colours suited me best, what style of clothing I should wear, and all the other mysteries of cosmetics and jewellery I’d never learned before. Fashion can be a weapon, you know that?”

And indeed, Korli had taken some of those lessons: her ears were pierced with hanging bronze earrings and her clothing was in wheat-gold and deep teal, colours which suited her colouring well.

“It’s a sphere of combat we Companions rarely see,” Skjor admitted with a laugh. “I see you’ve been doing more than challenging Daedric Princes to holmgangs.”

“I still don’t know what possessed me beyond needing to prove that united, the Redguards, the Reachfolk and the Orcs were stronger than they were standing apart,” Korli answered in a chagrined tone. “Malacath held back, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.”

Her blue-green eyes were distant. “I won’t be coming back until I’m ready, Skjor, because on that return, I will be going to Windhelm and having _words_ with my mother. I won’t slay her. I hope I don’t have to fight her. But honour demands that someone call her out for her actions and show the Stormcloaks that the way they’re trying to win their freedom is wrong. Deception, betrayal, assassins – Talos might have used those tactics, but it doesn’t mean they were right. It isn’t politics. It’s honour. And since I am my mother’s daughter and have stood in opposition to her, it must be me.”

“Aela will be pleased, at least,” Skjor finally said after a moment’s pause.

“And _you_ need to stop undermining Kodlak at every turn. It’s bad enough that the Redguards know of the schism in Jorrvaskr.” Korli held up her hand as Skjor opened her mouth. “I know he’s been in the wrong. But he’s the Harbinger. Either challenge him and make an honest battle of it or shut the fuck up and focus on shoring up Jorrvaskr’s honour.”

“He’s still trying to force the Circle to follow his path,” Skjor told her.

“Ignore him on that part. My granma told me there’s a potential cure, but Kodlak will have to earn it,” was her answer. “He can’t be so sick that he can’t travel to Glenmoril and ask for a renegotiation of terms.”

“The wasting’s hit him pretty hard,” Athis said soberly.

“Then that’s his problem. Jorrvaskr has no masters. But you need to stop undermining the Harbinger because you’re destroying the foundations of Jorrvaskr itself.”

Skjor glanced away in shame. Korli was right.

The next day they went in search of the mammoth bear. It was holed up in a cave ten miles out of Elinhir, rank with blood and rotting meat, and its eyes glowed with unnatural fury when it wasn’t sleeping.

“Werebear gone feral,” Skjor said with a sigh. “We should have brought Aela-“

While he’d been talking, Korli had been loading her crossbow, sighting along it and then firing. The first and only bolt struck the werebear between the eyes, which was enough to wake it… but impair its actions. Only Hircine’s strength kept the beast alive after that shot.

Korli quickly became the anvil in the battle as her Orcish armour was strong enough to withstand its claws while her gauntlets were able to stun it, but it was still quite a lot of work to bring it down for all three of them, and none of them walked away without wounds. But it died and none of them did – and that was a victory and a glory in Skjor’s eyes.

They delivered the head to Safiya, Lady of Elinhir, and earned a generous bounty in return. Because it had been one of Hircine’s children, they’d burned the body, and Skjor wondered what drove this poor bastard to madness and the forgetting of his humanity.

It was a sobering thought, one that marched alongside Korli’s admonishment about honour as they rode back to Skyrim. Behind them, the woman he knew would be the next Harbinger as Farkas and Aela foretold continued to hone herself into the leader the Companions needed.


	8. Shadow of a Prophecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, genocide, war crimes, adultery, sex work, alcohol use and imprisonment. Bit of a timeskip with some Crown perspective! I’m using bits of Southern Sotho for the Crown dialect of the Yokudan language and Swahili for the Forebear variant.

Tariq ibn Amair al-Hegathe was a Crown of the highest breeding short of actually being royalty, able to trace his ancestry back to the na-Totambu of Yokudan history with even sideways ancestry from Iszara, the sister of Sura-HoonDing, the Avatar of the Tiber War who saved Hammerfell from the cruelty of Septim’s own evil invaders. His appointment as Dean of the Academy of Mages had been a means of placating the Crowns of eastern Hammerfell, though he was truly an efficient administrator and competent mage in his own right. His features were perfectly sculpted in the na-Totambu ideal, his skin was onyx-dark and his eyes a startling amber, and his choice of traditional Crown robes with their bright geometric patterns and elaborate wrapping stood out among the fur-trimmed foreign-styled pastels of the Elinhir Forebears. The only concession to the chill from the Jeralls was a long woollen mantle lined with rabbit fur.

He sat cross-legged on a cushion across a low table from the latest postulant to the College, his personal assistant Niwasi bringing black kaffe, sweet cakes and rosewater. Tariq always observed the civilised amenities, even with his enemies, as a Crown’s duty to his people was to provide an example of nobility at all times. Let the Forebears hare off after the casual incivilities of the Nords or the rigid arrogances of the Cyrods; he would follow traditional manners, no matter who he dealt with, and remind himself that not all had the benefit of a correct upbringing. Though he did lament he couldn’t make an etiquette class or two compulsory for all the Academy’s students.

“Kea leboha,” said the would-be student to Niwasi with a friendly nod.

“Ha ho bothata,” responded Niwasi with a slight softening of the planes that could be gratitude, even respect. An Alik’r tribesman of the oldest school, he would never fawn over a guest who showed _some_ signs of manners, but he would definitely indicate approval for only his liege to see.

Even if that was all the Totambu she knew, Tariq pushed her a little further into the bracket of ‘civilised’. Unexpected, given that she’d spent most of her life being raised by an at-best indifferent Nord mother and downright abusive Cyrods, then the next two or three years among Nords and _Orcs_ , and her only example of relatively civilised behaviour being Safiya bint Beroc. His agents had noted she learned swiftly, almost supernaturally so, and was positively chameleonlike in her ability to adjust to new situations and teachers.

“Let us speak Tamrielic,” Tariq said after they’d sipped some kaffe and nibbled on a sweet cake each. “The kaffe and cakes are to your liking?”

“Almond and… candied lemon peel, correct?” she asked after dabbing at her lips with the cloth dipped in rosewater. Thank the gods she didn’t lick her lips. Tariq would have died a little inside.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“They’re delicious,” she said with a smile. “Do all would-be students receive an interview with the Dean?”

“Of course. We’re not the Synod or the College of Whispers, who mass-enrol students like they’re trying to field a Legion in a hurry, or the College of Winterhold that’s… hmm…” Tariq paused for a moment, trying to find a tactful phrase.

“’Disorganised mess’ is about as polite as you can get,” she said dryly. “Between the Archmage and the Jarl, poor Winterhold’s the most deprived, isolated, neglected Hold in Skyrim.”

“You’ve been to the College then?” Tariq dabbed at his lips and then sipped some more kaffe.

“I’ve been to Winterhold. I was on a…” She paused, lips pursing. “A sacred hunt, if you will, and I needed to trade a number of pelts I’d collected on the way. Jarl Korir took offence after I’d told him I’d rather be an honest heathen than a worshipper of Talos who justified atrocities in the name of their god and tried to have me thrown in jail.”

Tariq raised an eyebrow. “You are a worshipper of Hircine?”

Korli shook her head. “No. I worship Kyne – not the Imperialised version, but the old Nord goddess who is the Warrior-Widow of Shor, the Guide of Souls in both death and rebirth, Mother of Men and Beasts, Storm-Goddess and Hero’s Help. I _have_ venerated the Madgoddess, Hircine and Malacath where appropriate in the past, due to familial connections in the Reach and Orsinium, but I’m no Daedric cultist.”

“Ah.” Tariq allowed himself a wry smile. “That must have made you popular with the Stormcloaks.”

“My mother – as I’m sure you already know – is Ulfric’s wife Sigdrifa Stormsword,” she replied. “I’m the daughter who didn’t have the decency to stay dead or hidden, the one who became Eorlund Grey-Mane’s apprentice and a Companion of Jorrvaskr, the one who knows a few too many embarrassing things about the Last Shieldmaiden of Talos.”

“Ah yes. Safiya was… descriptive.” Tariq selected another cake. “You needn’t worry about entering the Academy. Your place would be assured, even without Safiya’s influence. The only requisites are Yokudan ancestry or a patron of Yokudan ancestry, which you fulfil on both fronts.”

“So I was told,” Korli confirmed. “I have a grounding in most of the Schools; my first tutor was a Blades mage and I’ve received some training in the Reacher tradition from my grandmother. If I’d gone to the Synod or the College, I’d have been a mage, and probably a decent one.”

“You certainly don’t believe in false humility,” Tariq noted.

“I’m a Companion of Jorrvaskr,” was her dry response. “You don’t become an heir of Ysgramor if you’re the shy humble type.”

“I suppose not.” Tariq nibbled at his cake. “You’ve only enrolled for four moons, I see.”

“I’m a wonder-smith of the old Nord style – it’s a kind of shamanic magical practice that relies on thaumaturgy that’s derived from pre-Talosite alchemical and enchantment rituals – and while my teaching was good, my mentor only knew a few real enchantments, and little of advanced enchanting theory or where it melds into the other Schools,” Korli told him. “I also intend to return home to Skyrim before the summer Moot, for reasons of honour, so about four moons is all I can spare. I’d promised my father and stepmother I’d visit them in Elinhir; it seemed practical to advance my own understanding of smithing and enchanting techniques while I was here.”

“Ah!” Tariq finished his cake and washed it down with some kaffe. “Perfectly understandable. Given you’re more mature than some of our students, even if you’re not much older than the apprentices, I believe you will put those four moons to very good use. So you’ll be dividing your time between the Academy and the smithy?”

“I’ve already learned from Hurrem bint Hakeem the techniques of the Ra Gada,” Korli replied. “I’ve heard the Crowns can be a bit, ah, _exclusive_ in their choice of apprentices so it made sense to learn from an ally of my fathers.”

“We do try to keep our techniques to ourselves. Not out of malice or selfishness, but because the Forebears would sell them on the open market to the highest bidder,” Tariq told her candidly.

“Well, only Grey-Manes or Companions are allowed to work the Skyforge and learn the wonder-smithing, so I won’t judge here,” she observed. “So, when does class start?”

Over the next four moons, Tariq came to understand just how _ferociously_ intelligent and driven Korli Grey-Mane was, and thanked the gods her father was of a more lackadaisical and idiotic bent. Not that the other students of the Academy shirked their studies, but it was clear that Korli was used to working long hours and focusing intensely, a drive and discipline that would have done an Alik’r warrior proud. After the initial two weeks to ascertain her competence, her tutors let her work at her own pace and checked on her once a week. She’d even found the time to provide a greater understanding of the Nord ‘heathen’ beliefs, which predated Talos and appeared to be not unlike the shamanistic practices of the desert tribes, the Reach hill-clans and the Orcish wisewomen.

The time came to test all she knew in the Star Ordeal, where the astrologers determined her birthsign and assessed her accordingly. Born on Heart’s Day under the sign of the Lover, she’d told them. Well, her passion and her grace would be ignored and her mental endurance pushed to its limit.

Tariq watched from the balcony as the astrologers twisted blue-white light around the woman in a complex twist of Illusion that had been enhanced by the alchemical preparations she’d consumed earlier that day. In the globe in his hand, he could see the illusion from her perspective, and it was a cold grim one…

…

_Korli wrapped her ragged cloak tighter about herself as she climbed the crumbling steps. She didn’t want to climb upwards but behind her was a fate worse than death. All she had known was the struggle to survive, from the day of her birth to this moment. Sometimes she wondered if it would be all she knew._

_The cave-mouth yawned open like a cave of nothingness. Eager to get out of the snow, she dived inside and when she turned to look at the outside, the white snow-light of a winter in the Jeralls was gone. So she looked back to the darkness and pressed forward into the cold damp tunnel._

_Except it wasn’t a damp tunnel, it was a throat, and at the end of that throat awaited Oblivion._

**“Yol,”** _her mind whispered._ “Fire.”

_To her surprise, fire came forth and illuminated the throat-tunnel for an instant, earning a chuckle-earthquake from whatever had swallowed her._

**“Dir nu arhk mindok hin daan ko Sovngarde.”**

“No,” _she said and the battle began._

…

“I don’t give a fuck who he’s related to! He damned near got my daughter killed!”

“But she did not die!” Tariq snapped.

“Only by direct grace of the gods,” observed Jubal grimly. “Your damn astrologers summoned an aspect of _Satakal_ , for fuck’s sake.”

Rustem gave the leader of the Children in Elinhir a startled glance at his language. After the… well, magical shitshow in the Apex Tower, it had taken Jubal and several priests to wrangle the chaos into something containable, then hold the Wards until it ended. Korli and the astrologers had survived by the literally miraculous rainstorm that doused the fire.

“Surely not!” Tariq scoffed. “No man can do so!”

Jubal closed his eyes and counted to ten in Ra Gada. “Moja, mbili, tatu, nne, tano, sita, saba, nane, tisa, kumi…”

Safiya cast a glance at Akoye, her own court astrologer. “Is it possible?”

“It would be more accurate to say that the Academy’s astrologers summoned the _shadow_ of the destructive aspect of Satakal, that which devours the worldskin for it to be born anew,” she answered with a troubled expression. “It… interacted poorly with the divine aspect of the storm-goddess Korli worships. Hence the backlash and the direct intervention by said storm-goddess.”

“I was never informed that the woman was god-touched!” Tariq yelled, his na-Totambu serenity utterly gone.

“If you’d paid _any_ kind of attention to the magics and gods of outside the na-Totambu, you might have realised it sooner,” Akoye retorted acidly. “Not every god likes to announce itself with thunder and trumpets. Kyne, from my understanding, is a good deal more subtle than that.”

“But Korli will heal and live?” Rustem asked urgently.

“Yes. She wasn’t even that injured, only overwhelmed by the spiritual battle.” Akoye paused, still troubled. “But why would she and the destructive aspect of Satakal fight by yelling at each other in a strange language? And – forgive me, Jubal, if I press on a sacred matter – why would it take the form of a dragon?”

“Fuck,” Rustem swore as he put two and two together.

“No, thank you. I’d like to be the one woman in Elinhir you don’t pursue,” Akoye retorted sardonically.

“I’m not man enough to please you, my dear,” Rustem replied automatically. “Look, I think I know what this is, and forgive me but it’s none of Tariq or the Academy’s damn business.”

“I think that if my academy nearly gets ruined, it is,” the noble retorted.

“No, because it’s a sacred matter, and you weren’t a damned priest the last I checked,” Rustem reminded him. “Be glad we didn’t have a repeat of the Serpent saga and fuck off before I throw you out.”

Safiya’s mouth tightened as Tariq’s gaze hardened.

“We will cover the cost of any healing the astrologers need,” she said soothingly. “We should have mentioned Korli’s connection to Kyne in the application… though we had no idea you were actually using star-magic to test your students.”

Tariq nodded tightly. “Acceptable. I will leave. For what it’s worth, your daughter passed the test, even if she almost destroyed us in the process.”

Rustem gave him the finger as he left. Petty but cathartic.

“They summoned the shadow of Alduin World-Eater,” Jubal said, his voice shaking. “Those dark-damned _idiots_ …”

“Alduin?” Akoye asked.

“The Nordic aspect of Satakal’s destructive power, as represented by a great black dragon,” Jubal explained.

“He’s also a literal god that exists, but was somehow banished by Kyne-empowered heroes of the Nords back during the early days of Skyrim,” Rustem confirmed with a shudder. “There’s a prophecy the Blades kept from that time, that one day a Dragonborn – a mortal with a dragon’s soul – would contend with Him at the end of days. That Shouting… it was the Thu’um.”

“Kyne is a rival of this dragon-god?” Akoye asked carefully.

“Given She damned well gave mortals the Thu’um – the power of the dragon’s speech – to kick His arse, I’d say so!” Rustem snapped. “But you don’t know what this means. I do. Gods, why Korli? Why her? Haven’t the gods shit upon her enough in her life?”

“I don’t understand,” Jubal said.

“I do. My baby girl’s the Last fucking Dragonborn and she has to fight that cunt to stop the end of the world.” Rustem was crying. _“Why does it have to be her?”_

No one – god or mortal – gave him an answer.


	9. The Journey Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, genocide, war crimes and religious conflict. Korli is not stupid or deluded; she’s not being allowed to come to the correct conclusion by putting all the facts together. Final chapter in this part of the series.

“Are you sure it’s safe for you to be travelling?” Safiya asked anxiously as Korli packed her saddlebags. She had a great deal more to take home now, given that her stepmother insisted on giving her an inheritance and trousseau suitable to her station. “After what happened in the Apex Tower…”

“I had to face my fear,” Korli answered, tucking in a pouch of jewellery. “That my fear of dying unknown, my actions meaning nothing in the end… I’m not surprised it was personified as Alduin. You can’t get a bigger bogeyman – or bogey-dragon – for a Nord.”

Safiya looked doubtful but said nothing more on the matter. “Could you at least stay until the Summer Festival? Cirroc will be coming home to visit…”

“Sadly, the Summer Festival’s around the time of the summer Moot, and I need to be in Solitude for that,” Korli told her. “If my mother goes unchecked, another six moons may be too late.”

The Lady of Elinhir grimaced. “I suppose you’re right. Beroc’s last letter sounded… concerned. Istlod’s sick and from what I understand, Ulfric’s personal oath of allegiance will end when he does.”

“Oh yes. If the Cyrod-raised Torygg is presented as the Imperial candidate for High King, even if he’s got a competent Jarl-Regent, Ulfric – a hardened warrior with a general wife – will be shooed in by even some of the loyalist Jarls,” Korli agreed grimly.

“I’ll pray to Tava that She eases Istlod’s breathing sickness then.”

Korli finished her packing and took the four saddlebags out to the stables, where Rustem was checking his gelding. “You’re coming with me?” she asked in some surprise.

“To the border. As tempted as I am to go challenge your mother at the Moot and take care of the problem permanently, Beroc would never let me hear the end of it whether I succeeded or not,” he answered. “I understand the political reasoning well enough. But as your parent…”

Korli glanced away. “I’ve been unfair to you. You were never a good father because you weren’t given the chance.”

“I didn’t try enough when I had the chance,” he said softly.

“No, you didn’t, but you’ve more than made up for it ever since.”

Redguard farewells were short, a legacy of when they all lived in the Alik’r Desert, and they were on the road by noon. They rode along in companionable silence, Safiya’s outriders checking for any threats ahead. This part of Hammerfell was quite tame between the eastern Forebears’ legendary cavalry and the Academy’s master battlemages.

“So Hurrem tells me you can forge glass and ebony now,” Rustem said after a few hours.

“I can. Eorlund’s familiar enough with both materials that he can bring me to the cusp of mastery.” Korli chuckled richly. “I have the technical know-how now to forge the totemic carved plate, and if my journey should go well, I’ll have a couple weeks to make a set. The only thing that would make more of an impression on the Moot is if I was to show up wearing the stalhrim of legend, but I don’t have the time to travel to Solstheim and meet the Skaal to learn the art.”

“That’d be the armour of the Shieldmaidens, right?”

“Well, technically, but once every warrior of note wore a set. The Companions’ wolf plate is a lesser variant of the style, as getting a hold of enough quicksilver and ebony is hard.” Korli sighed. “My next goal after the Moot is to find the shards of Wuuthrad and reforge the axe. _That_ will give the Dominion some pause, as Wuuthrad was the axe of Ysgramor and was forged to be a bane to mer. It will also be my masterpiece.”

“I can get behind the idea of Thalmor getting mowed down like wheat at harvest,” Rustem said with a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. He’d been worried ever since the incident at the Apex Tower and Korli didn’t know how to deal with it, so she just didn’t acknowledge it. “Are you sure you can’t just settle down for a while? You’ve been on the go for the past two years.”

“From what I’ve heard, Kodlak’s still got his head up his arse, and I can’t return to Jorrvaskr without some kind of cure or an idea of a cure for him,” Korli answered honestly. “I’ll be twenty-one next Sun’s Dawn. I _might_ be able to join the Circle but I’ll be nowhere ready or experienced enough to become Harbinger, whatever Aela might think. After the Moot, things will be… interesting, to say the least. But it needs to be done.”

“If you show up in Solitude, the Legion might try to conscript you. You did run away from the draft…”

“Gracchus might try but Rikke will shut him down. It’s considered bad form to conscript Companions – and given I’m an active opponent of the Legate Primus’ chief rival, she won’t fix which isn’t broken.” Korli shrugged. “I’ve got the coin to pay off the scutage. Safiya certainly saw to that.”

“Don’t sell all the of the jewellery,” Rustem advised. “You won’t have anything for the wedding dress she’s got planned. If you’d stayed around a bit longer, she’d have arranged for you to meet every eligible Forebear bachelor in Hammerfell.”

Korli laughed. “I appreciate the thought, but at the moment I’m wed to the sword and the forge, to quote Laluska. I’ve got enough problems without adding romance to them.”

Rustem was silent for a long time before he asked, “Are you… do you…?”

“I’m not like Mother if that’s what you’re asking. Nor like you, because from I see you’re like the romantic version of her – not interested.” Korli looked ahead at the looming Jeralls. “I had a crush on Farkas and Aela until they wed each other. In the Workhouse, I never wanted to pass on the burdens that I lived with as the last of the Aurelii. Now, I don’t want to bring someone into a life of conflict and turmoil. There are no suitable partners among the Companions, not unless they’ve picked up a few new whelps since I’ve been gone, and few outsiders understand the intense bond between the heirs of Ysgramor.”

Rustem sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I’m never satisfied and while the priests tell me it’s the mark of Satakal, I sometimes get jealous of those who are content with what they have.”

“What more could you want than what you have?”

“Goldbrand shoved through Mede’s mouth, Irkand’s head on a platter, and the Dominion driven into extinction,” Rustem said fervently. “Then, maybe then, the world will be safe enough for what’s left of our family.”

There wasn’t much Korli could say to that, so she didn’t say anything at all.

The next day, they reached the customs building where she’d met Beroc, and dismounted. Rustem gave her a long hard embrace and looked deep into her eyes. “You’re more like Martin and Aurelia than you realise. Just don’t make their mistakes.”

It would be a decade and a half before those words made sense.


End file.
